The Water Keeper

by Charles Martin

  I stared at the orange box. “Gone.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  I nodded. “Me too.”

  Indecisive, she kept still. This time I spoke without looking at her. “I’ll help you find her, but you need to be prepared for what and who you find.”

  She nodded.

  I pointed to the boat.

  She took one step, then—conscious or not—twirled. Like mother, like daughter. It was one of the most beautiful things I’d ever witnessed, and it took me back twenty-five years to a beach, a breeze, and the smell of a girl.

  When she stepped aboard, she was immediately tongue-assaulted by Tabby, who spun in circles with happiness. I throttled into reverse, backing into the current where my friend the attendant threw me the bow line and saluted.

  Idling south, I turned to find Summer standing next to me. A question on her lips. “Yes, ma’am?” I asked.

  She held out her new phone and pointed at mine. “Could I have that picture?”

  Summer sat on the back bench, pulled her knees into her chest, and pressed her phone to her bosom with both hands. When I pushed Gone Fiction up on plane, she laid her head back where the breeze tugged at her brunette hair and Tabby licked her face.

  Ten minutes later, she was sleeping across the bench, arm wrapped around Tabby who lay next to her.

  The phone rested beneath her cheek. The faceplate was wet.

  I dialed a number I knew by heart. He answered after the fourth ring. I could hear female voices in the background. Happy female voices. He must have exited the room or turned a corner because they faded and his voice grew loud. “Murph?”

  “I just sent you a picture with name, details, and identifying marks. I need to know everything. Plus what you’ve got on traffic and trade routes. Players, names, vessels, destinations.”

  I could hear him smile. “I thought you said—”

  “I know.”

  He has this thing he does with his fingers when he’s thinking. He pushes his beard away from the edges of his mouth—separating middle finger from thumb. “You got room on those shoulders for one more name?”

  I stared out across the water, trimmed the engine, and pulled back slightly on the throttle. In truth, I didn’t know the answer. “Do you?”

  A long pause followed. “You okay?”

  “Yeah, just bumped into someone on my run south. And time may be short.”

  “Shorter than usual?”

  Another question to which I had no answer. “Not sure.”

  “I’ll call when I know something.”

  I hung up, sat back, and stared out through the windshield while steering with my feet on the wheel. Fingers’ lunch box sat oddly tied to the bow. When my vision grew blurry, I lifted my Costa Del Mars off the console and hung them on my face.

  While Summer slept, we passed through Flagler Beach and into the Tomoka basin. Tabby lay on his stomach, tail wagging, ears flapping, eyes forward, tongue hanging out of his mouth. The sight of Ormond Beach told me Daytona wasn’t far behind. Which was good. I was hungry and I had a feeling Tabby was too.

  Like Jacksonville, Daytona is a city of bridges. As I entered the city’s waterways, five towered overhead. I slowed, and we made our way into the narrow cut that leads into the Halifax Harbor Marina. I didn’t need gas but did need information. The attendant, Bruce, told me where I could find a dog-friendly place to eat. I thought about waking Summer but then thought better of it and asked Bruce to let her know we’d be back shortly.

  Tabby and I bought lunch. I led him to a patch of grass, and then we returned to Gone Fiction, where Summer had yet to stir. Bruce spoke as if his work was lonely. “Yeah, all the big boats come through here. Snowbirds heading south again.” He rubbed his hands together and pointed to the IC. “Everything and everybody passes right here.” He smiled. “The world on my own private conveyor belt of water.”

  “Seen any party boats? Loaded up with kids?”

  He considered this. “From time to time. Nothing lately.” He paused. “Although—” He pointed to a yacht on the far side of the harbor. I’d not noticed it when we arrived because it was hidden behind a hundred other boats. “That one came in night ’fore last. I was off. Don’t know who was on it, but it just appeared. Nice boat too.”

  I could see enough to know what I needed to know.

  “Any other boats missing since that one appeared?”

  He scratched his chin. “Yeah, we had this crazy black, sleek, modern-looking thing parked over there for three weeks. Maybe longer. A hundred and twenty feet. Dang nice boat too.”

  “You know her name?”

  This time he scratched his beard. “Something catchy. Like Catch the Wind or Catching Fire or . . .” He faded off.

  He threw me the bow line. I reversed away from the tanks and said, “Thanks.”

  Summer stirred as I circled the marina, coming to stand next to me when she saw the Sea Tenderly.

  Chapter 10

  I tied up alongside and climbed aboard. She was empty, but I already knew that. The interior was a mess. Trashed. It smelled of burnt rope, incense, alcohol, vomit, and urine. The hot tub was an odd St. Patty’s Day green color. The sound system was still blinking and the DJ’s turntable was still spinning.

  Summer studied the aft common area and kitchen. The stub end of marijuana joints filled the counter. Must have been thirty or forty. Wrapping papers. Beer and liquor bottles. Expensive tequila and vodka rested half full and half empty in what remained of the bar. Someone was courting and catering to these kids and sparing no expense.

  All manner of clothing on the floor where it had been taken off.

  Summer shook her head, disbelief painted across her face. We walked through the four staterooms, which were in no better condition. It’d take a cleaning crew a week to get this thing presentable, and I’m not sure they’d ever get the smell out.

  Summer folded her arms. “They left in a hurry.”

  “They do this.”

  “Do what?”

  “Change boats. Often at night.”

  “Why?”

  “It keeps the kids interested. And throws off anyone looking for them.”

  “You’ve seen this sort of thing before?”

  I nodded.

  “How can anyone afford this?”

  I tried to answer while not answering. “They are . . . financed.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I turned to Summer. “Usually Russians. But also the Chinese and Koreans. Middle East.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Who are you?”

  “Just a guy who’s spent a little time on the water.”

  She shook her head. “Not like any guy I’ve ever known.” She waved her hands across the boat. “What are they buying?”

  “Flesh.”

  The truth of this landed on Summer.

  I continued, “They have teams of men who travel the coast, find attractive girls, and offer them a good time. Then they offer them drugs. Get them hooked. Move the party south. Then one day the girls wake up in Cuba or Brazil or . . . Siberia.”

  “Why do the girls fall for that?”

  “The guys are well trained. They’re gentlemen. And—” I stared at Summer. “They often target the mothers to get to the daughters. Do them a favor . . .”

  Summer sat on the sofa and hung her head in her hands.

  I rifled through the drawers and cabinets. “Don’t. These guys are pros. They saw you coming a mile away.”

  “But—”

  “Let’s go.”

  “Shouldn’t we call somebody? This is bigger than—”

  “Not if you want to find her.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You alert any authority, and that boat will skip to Bimini in the next thirty minutes on the way to South America. You’ll never see Angel again.”

  “But how—”

  “They’re smart and they don’t joke around but they’re also businessmen, and more girls equals more m
oney. So they’ll work the coastline until they feel real pressure.”

  “What will they do when they . . . ?” Summer trailed off.

  “They’ll post pictures on the dark web and sell them to the highest bidder—which I imagine they’ve done already. For the really special girls, they set up an auction.”

  Summer didn’t speak.

  “I don’t know what you thought you were getting into or what you thought you’d find, but Angel is in a bad way. And these men, no matter how gentlemanly they seem, are anything but gentlemen. She’s addicted to some ugly stuff, and even if and when you do find her, she’s going to need to dry out for several months.”

  Summer sat shaking her head. “I should call someone. Someone who can do something.”

  I put my hand on her shoulder. It was the first time I’d touched her in tenderness and not in an effort to pick oyster shells from her body. “Do what you think is best.” The moisture told me she’d soaked through her shirt. “But you’d better let me doctor that.”

  She turned sideways. “Have you done this before?”

  “Done?”

  She waved her hand across the boat, the water, and what lay before us. “This.”

  “Yes.”

  “How many times?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know.”

  “But you’ve searched for . . . people?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’ve found them?”

  “Yes.”

  “How many?”

  “Officially?”

  “Yes.”

  “Several.”

  “How many? Exactly?”

  “One hundred thirteen.”

  “And how many have you not found?”

  “Ninety-nine.”

  Confusion spread across her face. “Do you work for the government or something?”

  “Or something.”

  “And the ones you found, were they in as bad a way as Angel?”

  “Some.”

  Summer began sobbing and rambling about how this was her fault. I put an arm around her. She leaned into me. White as a sheet, soaking me with tears.

  I’d been soaked before.

  I tried to comfort her, but I had little to offer. “Boats like these have an incentive to make it as far down the coast as they can. They want more girls, but they want a specific type of girl. More time in the ditch allows them more time to do their homework and pick up people with no history. Loners who escape to the Keys—”

  She interrupted me. “Impressionable girls fighting with their overprotective, helicopter moms.”

  I waited until she turned toward me. “Never beat yourself up for loving your daughter.”

  The enormity of what faced her began settling in her chest. I continued, “They’re looking for people who won’t be missed. Best thing you can do is keep calling Angel and leaving loving and apologetic voicemails. Chances are about a hundred and ten percent that they’re monitoring her phone when she’s passed out. Listening to you talk to her. So you need to tell her you miss her, but you need to sound like you’re giving her freedom to figure it out. They need to think you’re a long way from this water. That you’re not chasing her. Otherwise . . .”

  “Otherwise what?”

  “They’ll shoot her veins full of antifreeze and drop her body in the ocean. To them, she’s just property.”

  She crossed her arms and held herself.

  “These people are pros at psychological warfare. They will tell her repeatedly that she is free to leave anytime, but they will give her every possible reason and incentive not to. To stay on that boat. And that includes money and prizes. They’ll make her feel safe and secure and wanted and appreciated. They will send her on day trips, maybe a jet ski ride under the guise of freedom. Possibly an overnight. A one-off. And they will buy her nice things. Stuff that glitters. Actually, the gifts aren’t new. They’re just recycled from the last girl. Most of these girls have or had absent fathers or they were abused by a man they once trusted, so they have this man-size hole that these sick bastards like to fill with counterfeit. They’ll cause her to trust them like she’s never trusted another human being.” I paused. “They are masters at deception—at assessing and extracting value. Right now they own her. She’s not free to leave. She can’t. They’ll never allow that. They have too much invested. Too much at risk.”

  Summer shook her head. “I can’t call her.”

  “Why?”

  “A few days ago, she canceled her number. When I dial it now, it just says, ‘This number no longer in use.’”

  “How were you talking to her on the dock in St. Augustine?”

  “She called me from somebody else’s phone.”

  “And that record of a received call is now at the bottom of the IC.”

  She nodded but said nothing. That caused me to wonder if I had put my sat-phone number into Angel’s old phone or a new one her mom didn’t know about. I let it go. Telling Summer about that might just produce false hope.

  She spoke through the tremble. “How do I get her back?”

  I tried to deflect. “We have to find her first.”

  She stepped in front of me. Blocking my exit. “And after we’ve done that?”

  I weighed what to say. And what to keep. “Just help me find her.”

  Chapter 11

  Tabby wagged happily when we stepped back onto Gone Fiction. I was about to work my way out of the marina when the sight of Summer caught my attention. She looked too much like me. We needed to find her some proper clothes.

  By any standard, the Halifax Harbor Marina is huge. Used to catering to a lot of people with varying tastes from all over. Just like the stores that surround it. A clothing store shouldn’t be too tough to find. Feeling a walk would do us good to stretch our legs, I tied up in a day slip and the three of us began walking the boardwalk north along South Beach Street. An ice-cream store, a hamburger joint, an electronics store, a hair and nail boutique, and finally a women’s clothing store.

  Summer hurriedly selected clothes with a singular criterion: price. Then she laid them on the counter without trying them on. The sales attendant was a girl in high school. When she saw what Summer had collected, she lifted an eyebrow. I stepped around the side and held up her selections. “Can you help her find something . . . that is not this?”

  The girl laughed. “Gladly.”

  Summer was not in the mood for shopping, which I understood. But she couldn’t leave looking like that. The girl took her to a dressing room and handed her several pieces of clothing, which I assume she tried on. Fifteen minutes later, she returned to the cash register. Now the clothes were beautiful, but shame shadowed her face.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She held up the price tags.

  I paid the girl and tipped her for her help, and we walked outside. That’s where I realized just how beautiful Summer really was. She was stunning. I’d never seen emerald-green eyes like hers. Not even in the movies. And she had presence. Something I could only guess she learned on Broadway.

  She held the two bags of clothes and studied the sidewalk. Unmoving. Finally, she looked at me. “I can’t—”

  I knew what was going on here, but there was little I could do about it. “You hungry?” I stepped out into the street and walked toward a dog park. Closing the gate behind us, I let Tabby off his leash and he began sniffing and peeing on a hundred bushes and poles. And one fire hydrant.

  Summer and I sat on a bench in the shade, but despite my attempts at small talk, she wouldn’t look at me. Finally, she spoke. “You’re doing that thing again where you don’t talk about what I’m trying to talk about.”

  “What are you trying to talk about?”

  “I can’t—”

  I turned, faced her, and pushed my Costas up on my head.

  “I’m trying to thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “No, that’s not . . .” She shook her head. “I’m not . . .”r />
  To our right, the Daytona Beach Fire Department opened one of its huge bay doors, and a large red truck tore out of the parking lot, lights flashing and horn blaring. She looked up at me and studied my face a long minute. There was more but she swallowed it back, letting her eyes return to the bubble gum–dotted sidewalk. Pigeons circled in a Tabby-safe distance around us.

  “I’m trying to tell you something that will change your opinion of me,” she said.

  “Why do you feel the need?”

  She held up the bags. “Because I’m not deserving of—”

  “Sometimes we need to let others do for us what we can’t do for us.”

  “How do you make money?”

  I laughed. “I have a job.”

  “Yeah, but I had a job once, too, and I never walked around with a wad of hundreds like that.”

  “I’m unmarried. I live alone. Rent free as long as I keep up the place. I eat little. Don’t spend much. Don’t have a gambling addiction. And I don’t like credit cards, so the hundreds are sort of a necessity.”

  This gave her pause but didn’t really convince her. She shook her head. “Look, I’m not really a good judge of men. I’ve made . . . mistakes.”

  “Welcome to earth.”

  “I need to know if I’m making a mistake with you.”

  “Not as far as I can tell.”

  “I’m being serious.”

  “Summer—”

  Like Angel in the church, Summer was adept at invading my personal space. She stiffened. “Are you telling me the truth?”

  “Everything I’ve told you is true.”

  Another step closer. “And what about the stuff you’re not telling me?”

  “It’s true too.”

  “But—”

  “Summer, I don’t want anything from you. You are free to get off my boat anytime. I’ll take you to whatever authority you like. I’ll tell them everything I know, give them the picture on my phone, cooperate in whatever way you want. But you need to know that their chances are only marginally good at finding . . . a body. I’m trying to find a breathing person. Big difference.”

  She closed her eyes. She backed up and tried again. “That came out all wrong. It’s not what I was getting at. I’m sorry. I just wanted you to know . . .” She tapped her chest. “I just wanted you to know.”